Halftruths
by what used to be meemee
Summary: Yoh meets three ghosts and thinks about Anna. (Did I mention how much I sucked at summaries? Anyhow, YohAnna, as always.)


For Anna (memlu).

Half-truths

The anger and distrust the little girl harbored was so tangible, it was painful for him to even try to reach inside her. She screamed at him, shouted obscenities he didn't think little girls knew at this age (but who knew? she might have been born a hundred and one years ago, and had built up on her vocabulary).

He was glad that mortals (by that he meant people who couldn't see ghosts) couldn't see (or for that matter, hear) her. She was formless—if it hadn't been for her high pitched voice and her smallness, he never would've known that she was a little girl when she died.

THEY LEFT ME, she screeched at him, clawing through his clothes and at his chest, LEFT. ME.

"Who?" he asked, gently, making only a strange gesture to futilely protect himself.

THEY DID. She screamed louder, and her voice rose in pitch, until he was curled up in a ball from sheer exhaustion, and she began to disappear, her chest heaving slowly, as though she was panting (if ghosts could pant).

I hate you, she said, trembling, before fading away. I want you to die.

There was nothing he could say to that, though he made a feeble effort to try and make her stay. Those words had a numbing effect on him though—he could barely move. It had almost reminded him of Anna on that one day.

He hadn't heard much about her until he met her that day. Or maybe he had, perhaps when Yohmei was fed up with his laziness and was berating him about it, but then he was too lazy even to listen. Besides, Yohmei was always conveniently choosing times he was listening to BOB, for heaven's sake, and nothing should ever interrupt his communion with Bob.

Then there were times when he thought that it had never happened—Anna certainly made no references to it, and the next time he had seen her, she hadn't changed, not one bit. He thought for sure, that it had been a life-changing experience—it was for him anyway, but he supposed that he hadn't looked like he had changed (much) either.

But sometimes, the memories of that day were so clear, it was as though he could ascend into a higher level and watch it all over again from a different standpoint each time. Certain things would trigger it—when he accidentally brushed against his necklace, or when he caught Anna in deep concentration, making clothes for him (the ones he wore only to save his own life from her wrath).

He had heard many things about her after that. Orphan, lost, little girl, tragic, itako, talented, hard, mean, dedicated, heartless, soulless. He knew better; these were half-truths, though she _was_ a talented and dedicated itako, who was without a soul. They never mentioned that she was strong though. They never mentioned that she was beautiful either.

He didn't used to believe it (her not having a soul). After all, he knew anyone who could see ghosts were at the very least, decent. But Anna was not just anyone. He thought once, that he had to be Shaman King, if only to save her—but he soon realized that she didn't need (or want) saving. Then he wondered why she allowed him to, on that day.

He knew that humanity annoyed her (his own humanity, especially). He saw the way she moved through them, a hard fluid motion that cut through the people like a knife. He knew she thought him a fool when he would move out of people's way. Where people would go out of their way to avoid conflict with Anna, they paid no attention to him, and soon he would be pushed back, separated from her. When he would finally catch up to her, she was usually standing still, people walking around her in a three feet radius.

It made him sad to see it—the worst kind of loneliness was in a crowd. This he knew very well, but he was a fool to think that Anna cared.

It made him wonder why she loved him.

---

He heard the insistent clicking of her rosary beads long before he stepped through the door.

"You're late," she said, and in the same breath, "The food's cold now." She was reclining against the sofa; her head rested on the back of her left hand, from the other hand came the click-clack of beads.

I'm sorry, he wanted to say. Instead, he said nothing at all, merely nodded, "Ah."

He watched her rise from the sofa in one long graceful motion. She too, was watching him. "Well?"

They sat across from one another and ate in silence.

He wanted to tell her about the ghosts he met that day, about the little girl who had died of self-imposed starvation when her parents died, about the man who had gone crazy after he discovered he could see ghosts, about the woman who had killed her own child to get back at her husband. He wanted to tell her that he couldn't save them; they had been too wrapped up in their own human frailty.

It was their own humanity that had ensnared them (and his own fascination, in a way), but he knew that it was this very humanity that would not impress Anna.

Anna, who had no heart, who had no soul. It was hard to believe that she had ever been a child. Being an orphan suited her, he thought, if once upon a time she ever had parents, they would only have gotten in her way. (Maybe they did. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.)

"You care too much," she said softly.

She was tending his (new) wounds in her brusque, but careful manner, and he clenched his teeth and tried not to wince as she dabbed at him with the cotton ball drenched with antiseptic. "Ouch," he said, loudly, when she poked at him a bit too hard.

"Stop helping people then," she was annoyed. "Maybe then," she touched his old scars gingerly, "you can heal properly and I won't have to spend my damn time cleaning up after you."

Yoh was not surprised. "You don't mean that," he said. "How can I become Shaman King…"

"You're right. I don't mean it," she cut him off, poking particularly cruelly in her irritability.

"OUCH," he almost yelped.

"Shut. Up." She gave him a glare. "You couldn't even save them."

That didn't make him too sad, he was (almost) startled to find. He knew he cared too much. He couldn't help it. When he saw those lost ghosts, he really saw himself reflected in their unearthly frames. And sometimes, (like today) he saw Anna. It wasn't that he felt sorry for them—far from it. (Like Anna, who didn't let anyone feel sorry for her.)

Anna wasn't looking at him, but he could feel her steady, thoughtful gaze, before she spoke. "You care too much." Her voice was careful, tentative, making sure not to put too much feeling or annoyance or thought or love.

"I know," his voice cracked, just a little. He saw the hint of a smile on her face. "You said it before."

---

She approached him in a rather harmless manner, but walked lightly enough on the ground for him to think it strange. This had happened before, but he couldn't remember when or why; it was blurry, smeared all over with dulled colors, but the sky was pink. She smiled, showing translucent white teeth and pink gums, but Yoh could not bring himself to smile back; there was something sinister about that smile that he shrank from it, even if just a little.

Have you seen my husband? There was only the barest sound of panic in her thin, reedy voice. Or my baby? I really, really want to see my baby. She pulled at her skirt; Yoh took it as a sign of impatience or perhaps, irritation. And my knife, she said. My knife is gone. Have you seen it? I need it. Help me.

Yoh realized without horror that her hands were stained with blood. He managed not to gasp, and moved with the habitual motions as one who had seen it before. She moved closer, and his stare was inevitably fixed upon her hands.

Hmm? she breathed softly, with just the slightest hint of hurt. Is there something wrong with me? She looked at her hands, then at him, and her gaze seemed to penetrate through his soul. Or perhaps, she murmured, coming closer with no footsteps, you'd like me better like this?

He could not make himself feel indignant as the image of Anna floated in her place. A ghost, he thought to himself frantically. A ghost. This hadn't happened before. He could feel the panic rushing from his toes to his head.

What's so good about this? It was Anna's voice that spoke. The ghost was genuinely curious, but also amused. She's scrawny; she has no meat on her bones.

The ghost picked at her black dress and rosary. And goodness what is this? Bad taste, I say.

Stop it, he managed to choke out. He felt as if she was strangling him with her words.

Or else what? Now she was really amused. And if she dies—she now lay dead on the floor in a puddle of blood—what can you do about it?

(Where was her voice coming from?) He laughed. You can't kill Anna that easily.

Oh, but if I can? Suddenly, Anna looked very real, and the ghost was floating over her dead body. The sky was turning red, and the clouds were thinning. Everything kept getting blurrier. He rubbed his eyes, but all he could see clearly was her dead body.

When did it come to this? he wondered. At first, he had only wanted to help these lost souls, and it seemed that was what he was doing, but soon, all he saw in them was a mirror—and he was in it.

Choppy, harsh, bitter laughter filled his ears, and he tried in vain to close them, because it hurt, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as he would've liked it to, because he couldn't keep the image out of his head—Anna looked, smelled, and felt dead, therefore, she was dead and that meant he should've died too.

---

It was the coldness of the water that woke him, gasping and choking.

"Bad dream," Anna said, quietly and calmly, very alive and very not dead.

The irrationality of the dream hit him the way the cold water hit his face, and he laughed, an sad sort of echo from his dream. Anna did not comment.

"She killed him," he said, before he realized that none of this would make sense to her. "She killed her baby.

"I tried to save her today," he went on, hurriedly, as though afraid of an interruption. "I couldn't. Her husband—he cheated on her and she killed their baby and her husband took her to the police. She died in an insane asylum six months later.

"She killed you. Not today, I mean, but in my dream—before, it was like déjà vu, and then, and then...

"Before, there was this man—he was crazy, Anna, really, really crazy, just because he could see ghosts. He saw that woman who killed her baby, he saw her ghost and he went crazy."

He didn't realize he was rambling until Anna coughed.

"It's late, Yoh," she said, almost apologetically. Almost. "I need my sleep." She paused. "You do too."

He breathed in deeply. "I'm okay," he said.

"I know you are," she said absently. "Now sleep. And don't dream."

"The sky was pink," he went on. "And then it was red. And there were no clouds. And everything was so blurry. Do you think I need glasses?"

"Sleep, Yoh," she said, exasperatedly.

"You're really beautiful, you know, Anna." Somehow he couldn't stop himself; he was moving through paper windows, and it would give him cuts, but he didn't care. "I love you, Anna."

She was silent; only the deep sound of inhalation responded in a vain attempt to feign slumber. He couldn't help it; he had to smile.

He settled into his futon and slept—this time, he had no dreams.

---

Before he finished eating, she rose and roughly handed him some clothing.

"What?" he said before he meant to.

"It's nothing," she said, unembarrassed. "I made it last night."

He didn't comment on the bandages wrapped around her hand, but he couldn't resist asking, "Did you make these in the dark?"

"Yes," she said, unaffected. "I didn't want to wake you."

"Ah." He grasped the clothes tightly.

He stood to leave when she said, "You don't have to save the world."

"I know." He turned and smiled brightly at her. "But I can try."

She muttered, "Idiot," under her breath, but the corners of her mouth were curled just a little bit.

He left, making sure that the door did not slam, before gently tapping in his shoes and turning the 'on' button on his CD player, and thought about the man who went crazy after finding out he could see ghosts. What was so wrong about seeing ghosts? They had coexisted with the living for the longest time.

Now those were the things that he should save the world from. He almost laughed; it seemed impossible.

Saving the world was not easy, he thought—but then again, neither was loving Anna.

/end

Yay! The longest fic I've written in a while. Not very good, but considering I haven't written much lately...well, it's like practice. XD

Eeeeeep. Okay, so the first time I uploaded this, killed my separators. ::dies:: But now, I put where there should be breaks in the fic. Sorry about that! (I now see why everyone thought the dream part was confusing.)

Comments/critism/suggestions are all greatly appreciated! 

/meemee


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